


Outback Origins

by Fluttercups



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 14:43:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11083743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluttercups/pseuds/Fluttercups
Summary: jus a little fanon prequel ft. The Boys and Sombra + large scale government corruption??





	Outback Origins

**Author's Note:**

> So this is approximately like... 7 years before the current game narrative I think?

Jamison Fawkes had never known the sky to be any other color than the patchy warm gray that blanketed the Outback. He had heard of it's blue depths only in stories from the elders in Junkertown, over a canned fire and passing scraps of meat back and forth. But that was when he was younger, and food didn't come so easily now.  
A scrawny pole with a hunch in his back at just 18 years, he was travelling out to the edges of the Outback to scavenge scraps and gears, anything worth selling, to keep himself fed. His fingers were black and torn from prying the guts from the busted up bots that lay all over, collecting rust. He could only wash the smell of oil from his body once a week at best, caked in the burnt, orange sand that had been streaked through with sweat from the hot, ashy outback.  
Scrapping wasn’t the only thing to do, however. Building newer, more controllable robots, robots that were built from the bones of the omnics, was a popular pastime of the residents of Junkertown. Some were automatons built to do simple tasks, with gears clunking and whirring, reverberating inside their shell. A lot of them were fighter bots, massive and heavy and remote controlled, pieces of patchwork armor and debris flying from them after every blow in the oil-stained rings.  
But the most common uses of the scraps was making cars. Cars built from the remains of sentient robots, that could achieve faster speeds than ever before, and included customizations like weapons and rockets, and some of the last cars in the world to include tires that actually touch the ground and tread the hard Australian terrain. Races were held with money, and sometimes even food, as prizes, and murdering the competition was not out of the question. Jamison loved watching the tires tear through the rust colored dirt, kicking it up and whining down the tracks. The ancient smell of the gasoline bubbling and spewing from the pipes. He watched with longing at the sheer speeds that these beasts could go up to. But every crash he witnessed, every car that went up in flames or mangled body that spilled out from the window of an upturned and smashed-in heap, reminded him that a skinny thing like him would never be able to race. His small frame would snap at the slightest impact.  
Given he could not race, Jamison spent more of his time building. He’d created bots that could burrow underground with sharp, metal claws and lenses for eyes, popping up and snatching bits and pieces of food here and there, making sure no one was around to see it. This didn’t work well though, as most farmers in Junkertown guard their crops with guard dogs, or bots of their own. Instead he’d taken to modding and improving parts of these automobiles that he admired. Most recently he had added a churning vortex of blades on the nose of a racers car. It would suck in any competition who got too close while ahead, slicing and chewing them up, or, if they were quick enough to jump out, just their vehicle. The concept (and design) was menacing, but in total it was actually a bit of a downgrade, Jamison thought. It took a whole second compact fusion core to power the entire machine with this addition, making the upkeep ridiculously expensive for a person living off scraps, and there were enough simple ways to get ahead without placing yourself right in front of the car, it was effectively useless. To top it all off, it made the whole thing nearly twice as slow with the added weight.  
Nevertheless, Jamison told his customer all of this, and his decision hadn’t budged. Jamison finished up the last few touches and stepped back with a relieved sigh. He started the car up, letting it run for a few minutes before yanking the cord to start the fan of blades. It whirred and buzzed, increasing in speed, the engine behind making a low, guttural growl. The thin sheets of metal circled around a small opening, about the size of an apple, that would make it easier to suck things in and hold onto them. The sheer size of the entire machine matched with the predatory roaring that grated on his eardrums made for an incredibly formidable opponent on the tracks.  
Jamison shuddered. What it lacked in functionality it made up for ten times in intimidation.  
Fawkes stared at his work in triumphance momentarily before shutting it all down. He pulled down the dinky, makeshift door to his garage, neglecting to put away or organize any of the tools and rags that sat around on the floor and many shelves inside of it, and locked it’s three locks. Black oil stained his fingertips, and he brushed his hands against his torn and baggy shorts, tracing the dark streaks already there.  
Nearly every night, the citizens of the town would break off into sections and crowd around the few televisions the community had so they could watch the nightly news. Most of the younger people didn’t care, and Jamison didn’t particularly either. But he knew with most people away from their homes, right after sundown, it was the perfect time to try to swipe food. Nothing big, a bit of fruit, an ear of corn, and maybe some bread if he was lucky.  
He started down the alley, away from the heap of metal and boards he called home, his hands stuffed in his pockets and an old bag hanging behind him from his shoulders. His shadow dissolved behind him as the sun fell between the two rows of buildings that flanked him, each in it’s own state of disrepair. People in rags shuffled through the city, carrying sacks of food from the small street vendors and returning to their homes. A pair of children ran across the beaten dirt street in front of him, smashing into his tall, skinny legs and nearly causing him to fall. He scowled at them and continued on.  
As the sky darkened, the bustle of the city quieted. He reached the edge of town, arriving at the small farm of Junkertown’s Sweetheart, Mako Rutledge. Mako had the highest number of wins in the races, meaning he also held the highest body count. For this, he was a favorite among betters and fans like Jamison himself. Why he grew his garden of fruits and vegetables when he could afford more food than he could possibly eat was beyond him. Or maybe, he thought, the fat lug really did eat all that and more. That would explain his size. Fawkes looked down at his thin arms and sighed.  
Mako never had anything guarding his food; he killed enough people in the races that only a person without a brain would try to steal from him. James came here quite frequently. He craned his neck to see if he could glean any light coming out from the windows of the house that wasn’t far away. No, he thought, guess no one’s home. He crouched down and got to work digging through the plants.  
His carrots were coming in well. Jamison unearthed a number of those and brushed the dirt off of them before stuffing them in his bag. He patted the soil back down to cover the holes that he’d left and then moved on to a crop of sweet potatoes. Carefully, he pulled up the vines, raising the food from the earth and snapping it from the plant. As he was doing this, a flash of movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He swiveled on his feet and cautiously stood up. A gray rat sat a yard away from Jamison, gnawing away at a carrot it swiped. His mind wandered. I haven’t had meat in a while, he thought, swallowing.  
Light on his feet, Jamison crept a few inches forward and pounced on the thing, grabbing it’s fat, furry body. It squeaked and squirmed and wriggled, freeing it’s body from his bony hands, but he quickly pinched it’s tail between his fingers, dragging it back to him. He made quick work of it, it’s body going limp in his hands.  
That was when he heard a heavy grunt behind him.  
Before he could turn his head, a large hand caught his neck, crushing it, and lifting him from the ground.  
His body was spun to face the ugly, scarred mug of Mako himself. He could smell the stale air exhaling from his flared nostrils. His brows pushed so far down onto his eyes that they were flattened to angry slits.  
Jamison let out an involuntary giggle.  
_Fuck_ , he thought.  
“Do you want to explain yourself or do you just want to skip to me killing you?”  
“I…” Mako squeezed the words from Fawke’s throat, while he nervously fumbled with the rat in his hand. “I was getting this rat. I was killing it. It was stealing your carrots, it was.” Mako stared hard into his eyes, so he held the rodent up. “I was doing you a favor really,” came out as a strained whisper through Mako’s hand and Jamison’s sheepish grin.  
“You must hate thieves then.” Mako said, disillusioned.  
“Oh yes,” Jamison nodded vigorously, contagiously, like a proper swindler, trying to get his prey to agree with him. But Mako was a much larger creature and James certainly did not feel like a predator under his heavy hand. “I am a poor mechanic after all, I know how awful it is to be robbed.” He put a practiced stress on words like poor and awful, shaking his head sympathetically at the latter.  
Mako wasn’t phased. He reached for the bag at Jamison’s side and upturned it, dumping its contents to the ground. His own crops fell to his feet before he turned his eyes back to James, who could do nothing but plead with his eyes.  
Mako grunted again and released him. He fell to the ground, a crumpled pile of thin, stretched limbs, as air rushed back into his lungs. Without hesitation, he began to scurry away, but was caught once again, this time the hook that curled around his caved waist.  
“Please, fuck, please. I’m sorry, I’ll never so much as even look at your garden again just please don’t kill me.” Jamison writhed in the long metal wrapped around him, his face flushing red. His composure falling away completely as snot dripped from his nose.  
Roadhog noticed Fawkes ribs peeking through above his hook.  
“You-” Mako began but stopped. A chorus of angry howling rose up from inside the town. Both men looked up.  
All of the people who had been gathered around televisions for the nightly news were now pouring out into the dirt roads of dimly lit Junkertown. Streams of people passed by Mako and the rat he had in his hook, yelling as they went. Mako yelled back, “What’s going on?”  
One of the crowds people shouted, “The omnics, the government has given them our land!”  
Mako dropped his hook, but Jamison was too scared to move. He watched the older mans fat lip drop. This was the only time he’d seen him show a sliver of vulnerability. Mako’s face turned to his and regained it’s dark composure. “Don’t ever let me see you again, understand?”  
Jamison understood. Jamison ran.


End file.
